Break

by CD Reiss

  “You smell like soap.”

  I’d scrubbed myself red, drawing blood from my butt cheeks and twisting to scour the places on my back where he’d held me down. But I didn’t mention it, because I was asleep before I was tempted to explain.

  I woke from bed at dinnertime.

  Woke being a word meaning, “bolted up straight.”

  From bed meaning, “Debbie’s bed in a strange room Deacon owned.”

  Dinnertime meaning, “I was hungry, it was dark, and I didn’t have a watch.”

  Outside, I saw the stables. They were the size of a school gym. The smell of horses had been painted over in studio white. The lights were on inside, and Deacon stood atop a ladder, stretching his mighty form to do something to the ceiling. He was shirtless, and from across the yard, his abs were tight enough to kiss.

  I heard voices in another room.

  A robe and slippers had been laid out for me. I put them on and followed the voices to the kitchen. I’d hoped to see Debbie, but from half a hallway away, I discovered Margie reading a file of some sort on the counter.

  “Welcome back.” She didn’t look up from the file.

  “Who were you talking to?” I asked.

  “I’m really not sure.” She closed the folder and turned to me.

  I didn’t realize my arms were folded across my chest until she looked at them, and as if her eyes were hands, she made them uncross.

  “Come here,” she said.

  Belying her request, she came to me, three steps, one two three, and put her arms around me. Again, I had to fight the urge to cry.

  “We all want to see you,” she said into my ear.

  “Not yet.” I pulled away a little. “Just, can it wait?”

  “I talked to Jonathan. He said you were acting strange when you left. And you looked beat up. Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  Don’t cry.

  You wanted it, whore.

  Use different words.

  “Okay?” Margie said.

  The words were on my lips. He pushed me down and raped me. He hurt me. I was still hurt there. I could prove it. They could take pictures and do the kit. Though I’d washed away most of the evidence, I could talk about it. Then everyone would know, and they’d gossip, and it would be in all the papers, and the stink it created would be forgotten and…

  “You want to tell me what?”

  “Jonathan needs to worry about his own fucked-up ass.”

  She let me go. “Ain’t that the truth.” She snapped open her briefcase. “Do you want to talk business? Or Mom’s spiraling nerves?”

  “Business please.”

  “I’m glad you’re back.”

  “That’s not business.”

  “It is. But so is this. You’re an outpatient, and you have to be under observation. Five sessions, just to make sure you’re recovering. I got you the therapist you liked.”

  I almost breathed his first name, but stopped it in the tangle of longing and regret. “Doctor Chapman?”

  I think I squeaked. I didn’t want to see him because I wanted to see him so badly my ribs felt like jelly.

  “Yeah. That’s the one.” She put the file in her case.

  I felt pulled to the sky with joy and the earth with dread until the middle of me thinned and disappeared like taffy pulled to its breaking point.

  “And your friend?” Margie added. “I think her name was Karen Hinnley?”

  “Yes?”

  “She’s fine. Released this morning. Her lawyer called me and said she was asking for you. You all right?” Margie asked, snapping her briefcase shut.

  “Hungry. I’ve been asleep for, like, thirty hours.”

  She slid her case off the counter and kissed my cheek tenderly. “Are you all right here? Do you want to come back with me?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Will you call me if you need anything?”

  “No.”

  “Say yes.”

  “Yes. I promise. I’ll call you if I need anything. Like a latte or a foot rub.”

  “Good girl.” She started out the door but turned. “You can change, sister. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t.”

  “What if I told you I don’t want to?”

  “You’re a shitty liar.”

  She walked out before I could prove what an excellent liar I was.

  5

  FIONA

  Deacon had left my pager on the nightstand. It was his way of reaching me no matter what. My lifeline. My umbilical cord. I wrapped my fingers around it and checked it.

  —I’m in the stables—

  Out the door, to the left, in the stables. It would take me moments to get across that strip of yard. And then what?

  I regretted getting into his car for the first time since I’d chosen it over Margie’s. I’d needed to feel his protection—from myself and the world—at that moment, but I hadn’t intended to go with him. I hadn’t intended anything but to leave Westonwood, go to my place in Malibu, and not think about anything for a day or a year. I didn’t delude myself into thinking that had been a good plan, but it was something. I felt derailed in that strange white house, with a man I’d tried to kill and no purpose at all except to hide what had happened in the hours before he picked me up.

  And Elliot. I had to hide Elliot. He was mine. The memory of his fingers as they aligned the pen with the edge of his blotter, the lips that shaped his voice, they were mine. If I gave them life, my memories would be dismissed as a schoolgirl crush on a man who had helped me.

  Now Margie, with the best of intentions, had requested him as my outpatient therapist. I was surprised he’d agreed. I knew he wanted me, and I knew the better part of himself would want to stay away from me.

  Did he have a death wish for his career? Did he know how much I wanted to see him? How I looked forward to that first session?

  I took a deep breath. I couldn’t let Deacon see how excited I was about another man. He tolerated a lot of shit, but something about Elliot wouldn’t sit well with him. And Elliot and I weren’t going to happen. He was too good to be with me. He wouldn’t let his dick lead him around. Not for long.

  And I needed Deacon. I’d spin into crazy without him.

  Shit.

  I didn’t know what I wanted. What a fuckup I was. What a royal fucking fuckup.

  “Use different words to describe yourself.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud until Deacon answered from the doorway.

  “Oh, nothing. Hi,” I said.

  “Come with me.” He held out his hand.

  I did what I always did when he told me to do something. I followed instructions. I took his hand, and he led me outside. Crickets scraped their night song, and leaves and needles rustled in the shadows.

  Deacon put his hand on the back of my neck and guided me toward the light of the bigger stables. “Maundy was going to have too many memories, so I thought we should start fresh.”

  He opened the side door, and light poured out.

  The building had been converted into the party room, and a smaller extension into Deacon’s private studio. It looked empty, without a table or a shelf, but the white cabinets built into two of the walls were obvious to me because I knew what was behind them.

  “Have you used it yet?” I asked, looking at the thick hooks bolted to the crossbeams.

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “I’m here.”

  “You’re different,” he said.

  “That good or bad?”

  He looked out the window, moonlight full on his face, glorious golden arms bent over his chest. He wasn’t much of a talker, but he spoke with his lips and his hands.

  “Get into position,” he said. “I haven’t changed that much.”

  Thank God. At least I knew what that was. I knew where it fit into the scheme of our relationship. I turned away from him and laid my arms together so that the t
ender insides of my forearms were pressed together.

  A cabinet opened behind me, and he began.

  6

  DEACON

  I didn’t think this way until I walked out of Westonwood the first time, after you remembered what happened when you stabbed me. Before that, all I was worried about was whether or not you were sick. Or lonely. You don’t like being alone, and I knew they had you in solitary for at least part of that stint.

  I should have been relieved that you remembered.

  But I wasn’t.

  There are things I’ve known about you from the minute we met. And I tried to power through. I regret that. There are horses you can train. Wild horses. The stallions you think will never have a rider. I’ve had two of those, and they’ll only let me ride them, but they’re not broken. They’re not docile. Not really. Each and every one will turn on me if they can. Once you’re wild, you’re always wild.

  You have no idea why you stabbed me, but I’m going to tell you.

  You hate me. I’m an easy guy to hate. You’re not alone. I get off on your pain. I get off on dominating you. You’re small, and I’m in charge. Your goal is to please me, and that makes me feel good. I loved you because you hurt worse than any of the others. And now I know why.

  Don’t resist the ropes. They get tighter when you do. You know that. And don’t argue when you model. I’m telling you this when you’re knotted for a reason. Look at you, trying to shake your head. You’ll rip your hair out to deny it. Stop it and listen.

  Everything I’ve done to you goes against your nature. You don’t fight it because you truly hate yourself. I can’t cure that. Not with love or domination. So when you broke, you didn’t really break. Not the way a real sub does. You got confirmation that you were right. I don’t do that. I don’t play with confusion. But I did, and it ends now. There are new rules. I’ll take you and do what I want to you because you like it, but we have a new understanding, you and I.

  You’re not submissive, Fiona.

  7

  FIONA

  I am so.

  What the fuck are you talking about? We’ve been doing this for how long? You’ve been beating me raw, watching your friends fuck me, tying me into uncomfortable positions and showing me off. What the hell is that if not submissive?

  But I couldn’t argue outside my head. I couldn’t talk because he had a bit gag around my head, and my head pointing down at exactly the right angle to let my drool form a neat little puddle.

  What the fuck was this?

  Deacon, you get in front of me where I can see you.

  You let me talk.

  You son of a bitch.

  I hate you.

  He pushed me, and I swung, splayed like Peter Pan. I’d been glad he tied me with my clothes on so I could somehow hide what Warren had done to me, but now I didn’t want to be tied at all. I wanted to run away. Somewhere.

  “I love you, Kitten,” he said. “And I’m sorry I tied you up to say this. But I need you to hear it, and I need your defenses down.”

  I screamed in my throat, but I couldn’t move. This was such a shitty thing. The shittiest of shitty things. And again, in every way, I’d consented to it. I’d asked for this shit. Begged even. I couldn’t be mad at him even though I was. He really thought he was doing what was best for me. And fuck him.

  He kneeled in front of me so I could see him.

  I said something through the gag that I hoped sounded like, “Fuck you.” He pulled it down.

  “Is this your shitty way of dumping me?” I spit out.

  “See? Not submissive.” He held up his finger. “You enjoy being sexually dominated. You only require someone else’s control outside play, in the world. And this, I missed because I wanted you.”

  He didn’t look half as upset as I felt. He looked like he always looked, as if he’d figured it all out and was just laying out the obvious.

  “Get away from me,” I said through my teeth.

  “You’re still mine.” He was gentle enough to soothe, and firm enough to assure me.

  “I don’t know what that means right now.”

  “This is not my shitty way of dumping you. It’s a way of redefining what we are.”

  “You need a sub.”

  He tsked and shook his head slightly. “I need to dominate, and I need you. But you don’t need to submit sexually. Do you understand the difference?”

  “I understand,” I started as if I was agreeing, then I flipped it, “that the world is full of people telling me what I need and what I don’t. You know what I need? I need someone else to get me down. I have to pee.”

  I didn’t have to pee, but I wanted to be down, away, out of this room, and away from him and his fucking definitions. I already found Laurel Canyon oppressive, and the ropes around my body only reminded me of Westonwood strait jackets.

  “Debbie can get you down,” he said, standing. He kissed me on the mouth and strode out the door, his ass a perfect oval, stirring desire through my anger and confusion.

  He closed the door behind him. Ten seconds later, it opened, and Debbie came in. She wore black jeans and a red shirt with three buttons undone. She was younger than me, but decades beyond me.

  I must have been crying, because she took a red silk kerchief out of her pocket and wiped my cheeks.

  “He hasn’t been himself,” she said.

  She put her arms around me and held me as the ropes loosened and I fell. Debbie was my friend and more. She was a rock, a counselor. She put things in perspective even if I never listened to her. So I let her hold me, and she did it with affection and sincerity.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I said.

  “I have every confidence you’ll figure it out. Be patient with yourself.”

  “Your hair smells nice.”

  “Willem is here,” Debbie said.

  “Ugh.”

  “He was a great help while Deacon was laid up.”

  Before I could articulate why I had to grunt at the sound of his name, Willem appeared. Deacon’s younger brother was a solid muscular mass of what Dad would call distemper. I’d just call him a cranky asshole.

  And as he stood in the doorway with his arms folded and a sour face from here to the LA River, my opinion wasn’t changed. His hair was shorter than it had to be, as if he’d wanted to chop it off as an act of defiance. His eyes were as blue as Deacon’s, but colder, sharper, scarier to everyone but the few of us who thought he needed an attitude adjustment.

  “Hello, Willem.”

  His feet, in worn cowboy boots, were set far apart, knees locked, jeans rubbed-in with South African farm dirt. He got laid a lot because of his looks, but it was always a short-term thing.

  “He might forgive you, but I don’t,” Willem said.

  “Thanks for bringing that up. You can go home now.”

  Rather than go home, he strode in, heels clopping on the hardwood. His hair was lighter than Deacon’s and his beard was a short growth of copper. “You bring shame on this family. You’re dangerous. You can’t control yourself. You’re a child. A goddamn child.”

  Even without having been knotted ten minutes earlier, and even without Deacon having said terrible things to me and walking out, his words would have hurt me. I could tolerate being called a whore and a party animal. I didn’t mind if someone called me stupid, but his thinking of me as a child hurt. Hurt bad.

  “You’re a bore, Willem. No wonder you can’t keep a woman.”

  “That’s enough,” Debbie said in her Dominant voice. Willem wouldn’t recognize the tone, but I did. “Will, Mary set out lunch for you. You should eat it.”

  I saw his conflicting emotions. He was compelled to obey, but he had more to say. He turned his body halfway to the door and looked at me as if he didn’t want to lose so definitively.

  “I don’t deserve his forgiveness,” I said. “I’ll be around later if you want to yell at me more.”

  He huffed and walked out. We watched him go. Once he was
out, Debbie and I cleaned up the ropes together.

  I caught myself doing something weird. Something that tied together two parts of a disconnected story. I was walking the Laurel Canyon property, trying to do it straight so I didn’t look like a rape victim, and as I looped the ropes into tight spirals, I had a fantasy.

  In the fantasy, I told Elliot what Warren had done.

  I told him straight and strong. I told him about my pain, physical and emotional. About where denying consent had gotten me. I told him I didn’t feel like it was my fault. That I’d been clear. That I felt all right with myself about it. Fiona didn’t blame Fiona. I blamed Warren and wanted to put my fist in his ass.

  I fantasized that he understood. That he didn’t get mad. He didn’t try to wreak vengeance. He didn’t act like a therapist, and he didn’t act like a man on a mission. He took me in his arms and told me it was all right. That my reaction was normal. That my body would heal some day, but it would take time and I could be okay with that.

  He kissed me in that fantasy, as he’d kissed me in so many. But I’d just been knotted, and my emotions were open and raw, and the effect of my imagination was sharp and strong. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and I froze, because I could taste him. My lips shaped themselves against his, and his want was real and deep, man to woman.

  “Fiona?” Debbie said.

  An idea was fixing in my brain, slowly with every fantasy, that it could happen. That he’d allow it. That I’d accept it. That I could be the adult Elliot had faith existed and not the fuckup Deacon accepted.

  Debbie caught the ropes as they dropped from my hands. “What happened to you?”

  I shook off the crust of Elliot, but not the core.

  “I’m fine,” I said, convincing myself I could muddle through. “Just fine. I have a shoot tomorrow with Irving Wittenstein. Can you imagine? It was scheduled six months ago, and I’m back just in time. It’s crazy how things get back to normal. The machine keeps turning no matter what.”

  I smiled. She looked at me long and hard. She didn’t believe me, and as much as I wasn’t supposed to care what she thought, I realized I did care a great deal.